


Temper Tantrum

by rouven_stat



Series: The Witcher One Shots [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Lambert-centric (The Witcher), Self-Destruction, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rouven_stat/pseuds/rouven_stat
Summary: Some days, Lambert is on edge. And instead of asking for help, he decides to annoy everyone in the keep to get rid of that tension. To his disappointment, nobody plays along.
Relationships: Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Series: The Witcher One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132289
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Temper Tantrum

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, Lambert could feel it. Right underneath his skin, there was this familiar itch. Not painful, but it made his skin crawl and his fingers twitch. He knew this feeling already, had become very familiar with it since his early childhood, but he only knew one way to get rid of it. One way that would include asking for help from others – and there was no way that Lambert would accept that as an answer. Not here. But maybe, just maybe, he would be able to get help without asking for it. Maybe he could trick the others into getting rid of this tension without having to explain himself. And Lambert knew just the person to go to.

"Eskeeeel!"

With a dramatic huff, the older witcher turned around to see Lambert leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin.

"Let's play strip gwent – have some fun."

"You're insufferable."

A shrug, and Lambert took the response as an invitation to enter, slowly rounding his older brother before sitting down on his bed.

"Come on, you suck at Gwent and if I get to strip every time you win, I might just let you win," Lambert tried to convince him.

"What do you really want, Lamb?"

Eskel slowly put the book he had in his lap to the side, turning to face his little brother. The younger witcher was sitting on the bed, leaning back onto his arms, but muscles tense like a bowstring.

"Quality time with my bro."

"Spend 'quality time' with Geralt. Or you could tell me what this is actually about."

Rolling his eyes, Lambert got back to his feet, forcing a smile onto his lips that almost looked painful. "Fine, be that way. Where is the famous White Wolf, anyway? Maybe he will play some Gwent with me."

"Training outside. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

But before he could finish the sentence, the youngest wolf had left the room.

As announced, Lambert found Geralt outside in the yard with his steel sword in his hand, but not fighting. He sat on a turned crate, polishing the blade, inspecting it for any damages from the path last year. Boring, but that could be changed.

Lambert grabbed his steel sword from the armoury and approached his brother with wide arms.

"Wolf! Care for some real practice rather than making your weapons look as pretty as your hair? You know, do something actually productive."

A low hum of acknowledgement, but Geralt doesn't do as much as look up, focused on his task. Now, Lambert can't have that, can he?

"Come at me, oh mighty wolf! Bite me!"

This time, yellow eyes started to stare at him, one eyebrow raised in question. But he still didn't move from his seat, hands continuously moving methodically to work on the blade.

"To the first drop of blood - come on!"

No reaction.

"I can do this all day, Geralt, but if this is annoying just get your heavy ass up and fight. I promise I'll leave you be after."

The threat hung in the air for a few seconds, before Geralt finally got up. He came over to the younger wolf, balancing the blade carefully.

"First draw of blood – then you leave."

With a smirk, Lambert nodded, and beckoned the older witcher to come closer. What he didn't expect, was the small Quen shield – really, since when did Geralt get so good with his signs? – that hit him square in the face. Eyes wide, he stumbled back, watching as Geralt walked over calmly, and took the blade out of Lambert's hand, who was too stunned to react. Rough fingers grabbed his chin, tilted his head a little as Geralt inspected the damage done, then he shot Lambert a self-sufficient smirk.

"That's blood. I'm not making my blade dirty now."

And he left Lambert on the yard, reaching up to wipe away the blood coming out of his nose. This was what he hoped for in a way – that flare up of pain that would help get rid of the itching sensation underneath his skin. But it wasn't enough. There was still too much going on, he was still vibrating. Of course, he could go back to Eskel and take him up on his offer, but that wasn't happening. No. There is still another option that he could cling to.

He picked his blade back up from where Geralt had stored it away, and started to run some drills that Aiden had shown him on the path. They weren't practical in combat, but they used almost every muscle in the body, and they looked spectacular – making them a perfect mix of working out and showing off. But it wasn't enough, so Lambert started to incorporate additional jumps and quick sprints to tire himself out.

"If you have that much energy pent up, maybe I should get you to run the walls a few times. Or down the killer," Vesemir commented calmly when he found Lambert outside.

"The fuck I do."

Finally, there it was. The first bits and pieces of the tension seeping into anger. Anger, he could deal with. He was accustomed to it – and by now, all the other wolves were, too.

"I'm not a fucking kid anymore, and you don't get to order me around!"

As his voice got louder and louder, Lambert stopped his exercises to walk up to his old instructor, shoulders squared and slowly clenching his fists. By the end of the sentence, he was screaming straight into Vesemir's face – not that the old wolf was surprised by the outburst. When it had been just the two of them in the keep, it had become quite a regular occurence.

"Then behave like the adult you claim you are. Get a grip and stop shouting at me like a three year old throwing a tantrum."

"Get a grip?! I got a fucking grip! The best fucking grip in this motherfucking shithole! I'm the only one around not completely brainwashed by you and the other dumb fucks who taught us, or some motherfucking sorceress!"

As Lambert started pacing around kicking the stone walls whenever he was close enough to do so, Vesemir saw two curious heads peaking out the kitchen window out of the corner of his eye. For now, the two other witchers decided to stay out of it – a wise decision. Vesemir waited for Lambert to catch his breath to speak up again:

"If you had learned anything from us, you wouldn't be standing here, screaming at me like I am the devil himself. What's got you so bothered up today?"

He kept his voice deliberately calm and steady, but to no avail.

"Bothered? I will show you fucking bothered! I'm not bothered! I'm fine! I'm bored!"

Before the old instructor could come up with another response – likely going back to his original proposal of running the walls – Lambert pushed past him to storm inside. The sword was dropped carelessly onto the stones before he rounded the corner. With a sigh, Vesemir picked it up, deciding to let the little wolf be for a moment. Nothing more he could do anyway, and by the worried looks he caught Eskel exchanging with Geralt, both of them had already been a victim of the foul mood today.

It takes a few more hours by himself in the hallway, hurling insults at the walls, throwing his daggers against his wooden door again and again, kicking anything in his way, and beating his fists against the stone walls until his knuckles split open – only to repeat it once the wounds had healed. And finally, fucking finally the itching eased a little bit.

As the fight deflated out of him, Lambert slumped against the wall, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. It cleared his head a little bit as his eyes almost drooped closed automatically. He knew that if he didn't want to be woken up in the morning with a bucket of cold water over his head, he ought to apologise – even if not with words. Taking a deep breath, deliberately unclenching his fists and watching the wounds close up, Lambert turned to head down into the library.

When he opened the heavy doors, he could feel the oxygen flooding his lungs as he saw the familiar faces in the room. Vesemir sat in his armchair, looking up from his book upon hearing Lambert enter. In front of him on the rug sat Eskel, curled up around another book. And Geralt was sitting less than two feet away from his brother, sorting through some letters that came undoubtedly from that bard of his. Nobody else would send letters to a keep full of witchers.

For a moment, Lambert hesitated, unsure of his welcome, but without looking up, Eskel scooted a little further from Geralt, opening up a good-looking spot between his two brothers. He sat down slowly, and Eskel immediately bumped their shoulders softly.

"Want to meditate?" Vesemir asked softly, watching his youngest carefully. Lambert shook his head.

"Mind's still racing."

Vesemir nodded in understanding, and returned his attention to the book. By his side, Geralt put the letters down and reached over to hand Lambert a small bowl of dried berries and nuts.

"Missed dinner." Is the explanation he is offered when he raises an eyebrow at the white-haired witcher.

"Worried you will be the fattest if I miss one?"

"Would still be prettiest," Geralt jokes back, the hint of a smirk on his lips. Huffing, Lambert throws a hazelnut at the older, who catches it easily and pops it in his mouth.

"You're insufferable," Eskel complains half-heartedly, but they can hear the smile he tries to hide behind the pages of the book.

Sometimes, there is no need to talk – Lambert knows that his brothers will still have his back, and that he will always find a home in the keep no matter how much he tries to push them away. And when Vesemir stands to go to bed for the night and ruffles Lambert's hair on the way out, he knows he is forgiven.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
